


The Young Wolf and the Leech Lord

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Crack Pairing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:58:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb Stark and Roose Bolton disagree over battle strategy and porn ensues. </p><p>Unbelievably cracky fic that I wrote for the last got_exchange comment fic meme.  Prompter wanted something in the style of a bodice-ripper and this happened.  Posted in honor of Game of Thrones, episode 2.04, "Garden of Bones."  Spoilers for events past <i>A Clash of Kings</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Young Wolf and the Leech Lord

The first time that Robb Stark was swept off his feet was in a military camp, at the beginning of the War of the Five Kings. He’d been conferring with his mother, taking her council as a young lord in his position, fatherless, newly-crowned, was wont to do, and although he did not permit his inner turmoil to show on his face, his stomach was tied in knots, his heart in his throat. Such great responsibility, and he barely a man grown. But Robb would act as his father would have done, and assume the weighty mantle of duty in this, and in everything.

He thought that he was alone when a figure, heavily cloaked, entered his tent.

“Your Grace.” The voice was soft, just above a whisper, and Robb rose with a start, hand instinctively reaching for his sword.

“Who goes there?” he called, trying to mask the trepidation in his voice.

“Lord Bolton of the Dreadfort,” was the answer, and Robb shuddered. Roose Bolton, with his colorless eyes and his odd mannerisms, had always unnerved him. Unmanned him, more like. He sat, back straight, as the older man divested himself of the odd pink cloak and sat opposite him, eyes passing over the map of battle positions to Robb’s face, taking in the tense features, the rigid posture.

“It is good that you are here,” he said gruffly. Perhaps if he lowered his voice it would make him more a man. “I mean to send your forces against Lord Tywin, and there is much to discuss.”

“Tywin Lannister,” Bolton replied, drawing the name out, smiling slightly. “A hard man to break. May I ask why I am not given the van? My battle experience would demand such an honor.”

Robb faltered a bit. “I should send a hard man against a harder man,” he said, then remembered himself. “But it is not your place to question your king, Lord Bolton.”

Bolton smiled thinly, but it did not meet his eyes. “Pray forgive me, your Grace. I meant not to question, but only to inquire.” He took Robb’s hand, clasping it. “I certainly do not intend to…unsettle you.” His grip was iron and he did not let go. Robb was oddly torn between wanting to break free of his grasp, but oddly compelled to remain still, as though he were in the presence of a snake about to strike. They sat there, staring at each other for what seemed an eternity, until Bolton slid his hand away. “I frighten you, don’t I? Your Grace.”

“It is not that you frighten me. It is more the tales that are told of you.”

Bolton laughed drily. It seemed oddly loud in the silence. “It is really the tales that are not told that you should worry about.” He stood then, putting a hand on Robb’s shoulder. “Gods, you are but a boy.”

“You are insolent,” Robb rejoined, his voice full of the authority that he so desperately tried to project.

Bolton’s hand tightened and he leaned forward. Robb could smell the mint on his breath, feel his breath on his face. He’d never been that close to another man and could not help but feel a bit of curiosity and yes, amusement, at the absurdity of their situation.

“You would do well with a good leeching,” Bolton said then. “All of that…responsibility only serves to anger the blood.”

Somehow, his other hand was on Robb’s shoulder, pulling him closer.

“There are other ways to relieve that,” Robb said, and although he was not surprised that he kissed Roose Bolton full on the lips, he was surprised at how much he enjoyed it. It was cold, sharp even, but it woke him up, and instead of calming the blood, only served to inflame it. He permitted the other man to take the lead, surrendering to his insistent embrace, feeling the rough wood of the table scrape against his thighs as Bolton lowered him on the map, scattering pins and flags to the ground.

As Bolton’s icy hands unlaced Robb’s doublet, his head lolled back, cheeks flushed with the touch of another, his auburn hair falling from his finely-hewn features. When Bolton’s quick fingers tweaked a nipple, he permitted a small cry to escape his lips, pleasure mingled with pain, and when his arms, surprisingly strong, took hold of Robb and forced him over, grasped his hips and slid his remaining clothing from his now trembling body, he was in no position to protest.

Robb gasped as he was taken, the mingled shock and almost brutal shame almost too much to bear. Worse yet were the little endearments that Bolton hissed in his ear as he penetrated him.

“You’re nothing but an impudent pup,” he said, teeth fastening on the soft white flesh of Robb’s neck. “Barely taken from your wetnurse, parading about in your gilded crown.”

Despite himself, despite his inner disgust at being made Bolton’s wench, Robb felt himself growing hard, and before he could stop himself, he silenced the other man’s litany of abuse.

“Bring me off.” It was hard to speak, let alone breathe. “Bring me off, for the gods’ sake.”

“You command it?” Bolton chuckled, teasingly brushing his fingers against Robb’s manhood.

“As your King, yes. I do.” And when Bolton obeyed, surprisingly, Robb realized that he didn’t want things to end, that perhaps, it was not a bad thing to be pleasured in this way, and that the menacing command that Roose Bolton had taken of him was, in a way, delightful. So he responded when his clammy hand found his cock in the dark, and with practiced strokes, brought him to the edge of delight, and tormentingly, hatefully, pulled away.

They parted quickly, Robb clutching his erection, thwarted, Bolton smiling again. This time, it met his eyes, broadening when he noticed the rage apparent in his King’s expression.

“We shall continue this discussion,” Robb gasped, face blazing, breath coming hard, “another time.”

“Is that an order…your Grace?”

“You may consider it a command. Now go. You are dismissed.”

He would remember that and what followed when Bolton, the smile still on his face, thrust a sword through his heart at a wedding gone wrong, and in his dying moments, wonder in amazement how Roose Bolton looked just as pleased when he killed someone as when he fucked someone.


End file.
